Part 5

“Sure, sure! Miss Ault. Huh! Huh! Yes, ma’am! Looks like old Jud, eh? Know her any place. Naw, yuh don’t need to register. We never had but one book, and somebody stole it. I suppose they was collectin’ horse-thieves’ autographs. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The old man bent double over his stock joke, grabbed the lamp in one hand, the suitcase in the other and led the way down a narrow hall.

“I’ll put ye in the president’s sweet,” he chuckled. “It’s the only one that the wash-bowl ain’t cracked.”

Dude watched them turn into a room, and went outside. There was plenty of noise in the Oreana, so he went over. Klondike, Buck, Heinie and Joe were decidedly drunk. They goggled at him owlishly, sobering a trifle. It was rather unusual for Dude to come to town at that time of night. Buck invited him to have a drink, but he declined.

A sudden notion struck him, and he took Buck by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Buck,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck held back. “Now lissen to me, Dude. You’ve----”

“Not in here,” whispered Dude. “Come outside.”

“Oh, all right. Shay, now lissen----”

Dude drew him outside the saloon and walked him a few steps up the sidewalk, where he braced Buck against the wall.

“I know whasha want,” said Buck knowingly. “I didn’ know Klondike was gonna bust the lines. Oh, it’s an awful thing, ol’-timer. She mush ’a’ been killed. She----”

“You stole that girl, did yuh, Buck?”

“Oh, yesh. Firs’ we had a fight with the Lazy A, and the sheriff shot Joe in the pants with a sh-shotgun. Oh, ter’ble! Idaho Breen wash in it, too. Oh, cert’nly! So we tied him up in an old saddle-blanket and stole the girl. We admit it. Cert’nly, we do. We can’t deny it. ’S too bad, but it’s done, Dude.”

“Who knows about it, except you four, Buck?”

“Thasall.”

“Did Idaho recognize yuh?”

“’F he did, he’s a good li’l recognizer.”

“Then don’t say anythin’ about it, Buck. They can’t prove it on yuh; so keep still.”

“You mean that, Dude?” Buck goggled owlishly, pawing at Dude.

“Sure I mean it.”

“Is--is that girl dead?”

“Not hardly, Buck.”

“Oh, my; thash good. Mush obliged, Dude. An’ you ain’t goin’ to fire ush?”

Dude laughed softly. “No, Buck; I think not. Mebbe I’ll thank yuh instead. Go back and finish up yore job.”

Buck weaved back to the bar, where the other three boys awaited a verdict. Buck leaned against the bar, poured out a drink, a vacant sag to his lower lip.

“Whassa matter?” gurgled Klondike. “What’d Dude want?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” Buck sagged back on his heels. “It’s a shecret. Dude says to keep our mouth shut about it.”

“Zasso?” Heinie nodded solemnly. “Does Dude know about it?”

“Shertenly does,” rather loftily. “Oh, shertenly he does.”

“And he wasn’t awful mad, Buck? Didn’t fire us?”

“Nossir. He--he con-con-congratulated ush.”

“By gosh, dat’s fine!” exploded Joe. “My min’ is relieve, but I’m still got de li’l duck-shot in de skin.”

“Dude wasn’t drunk?” queried Klondike.

“Jus’ as shober as--as we are,” declared Buck.

“Then it’s all right. Here’s happy days, gents.”

* * * * *

It was early the following morning when Idaho Breen and his three cowboys rode in to Oreana City. Each man carried a rifle in a scabbard, and an extra belt of cartridges. The Lazy A was prepared for war. Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, sighed mournfully when he saw them. He wanted to be fair with both sides, even if Joe Chevrier did try to kill him the evening previous. Idaho briskly stated his intentions of going out to the Star X and demanding the girl and an explanation.

“And you better come along, Cleve,” he said. “It’s yore place to see that we get a square deal.”

“No-o-up,” the sheriff shook his head. “In the first place, yuh don’t know they took her. Last night yore outfit staged a battle with the Star X, which wasn’t noways decisive. If yuh go out there, all heeled for a scrap--you’ll git it, Idaho. And I’m not goin’ to back yore play. And I jist want yuh to know that the law ain’t back yuh. If yuh kill some of the Star X, set to kill somebody. That’s ag’in the law. If you go out there and git some of yore men killed, yuh ain’t got no law to back yuh. If yuh kill some of the Star X, all hell can’t save yuh from bein’ tried for murder. Better do quite a lot of thinkin’ about it, Idaho.”

It was a long speech for Cleve Sears to make, and it left him gasping for breath. It also left Idaho breathless.

“Are you backin’ the Star X?” demanded Idaho. “You went and used a shotgun on Joe Chevrier last night, and now yuh want to back their----”

“I’m not backin’ anybody! Chevrier tried to kill one of us; mebbe both. But that was last night. Yo’re goin’ out there to pick a fight. Well, go ahead, but remember what I told yuh.”

“But I want to find the girl,” wailed Idaho. “I’m not lookin’ for a war, Cleve. That girl was stolen, don’tcha see? Why, I’ve got a charge of horse-stealin’ I can put ag’in the man who took my team. There ain’t no law against killin’ a horse-thief.”

“Ain’t never been no law ag’in it,” said the sheriff slowly. “At least, when yo’re sure you’ve got the right man.”

“Well, I don’t think yo’re playin’ square, Cleve.”

Idaho joined his men in front of the Rawhide saloon, where they sat down to debate over their next move. The sheriff went on up to the hotel dining-room, where he usually ate his meals. He was just in the act of making an attack on a platter of ham and eggs, when Mary limped into the room and sat down.

Cleve Sears was a bachelor, but not feminine-proof. He stared at Mary, and found it difficult to concentrate on breakfast. She paid no attention to him, but ordered her breakfast from the hotel proprietor, who asked her how her “laig” was this morning.

“Much better, thank you,” she smiled.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Ault. Want yer aigs lookin’ up, or blind?”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“Leave ’em as they lay, or turned over, ma’am?”

“Oh, as they lay,” laughed Mary. The man shuffled away to the kitchen. The sheriff’s breakfast was unfinished, but he hurried outside and crossed the street to where Idaho and his men were still debating what to do.

“If yo’re lookin’ for a Miss Ault--she’s eatin’ breakfast in the hotel,” announced the sheriff.

Idaho blinked rapidly. “Over there? Huh! How’d she git there?”

“I didn’t ask her,” said the sheriff coldly. “I suppose she stayed there last night. Pers’nally, I think you was drunk and didn’t meet the train.”

“No such a damn’ thing! I tell yuh--oh, well, I don’t care what you think.”

They all filed over to the hotel, and on the way they saw Miles Lane coming down the street. He was greatly surprised at the news and anxious to see her. The four cowboys stayed in the hotel lobby, while the sheriff, Idaho and Lane went into the dining-room.

Miles Lane lost no time in introducing himself, and also introduced Idaho Breen and the sheriff. Mary had finished her breakfast; so Lane asked her to go to his office with him and Idaho.

“You’ve got yore credentials, ain’t yuh?” asked Idaho. Mary produced the letter, which Lane glanced through, nodding quickly. He turned to the sheriff.

“Cleve, I wish you’d get old Judge Mears and bring him to my office. We don’t exactly need him, but I’d like to have him there when we read the will.”

The sheriff turned away, and Lane led the way to his office, ignoring the three cowpunchers, who were anxious to meet the girl. Once inside the office, Lane closed the door and motioned Mary to a seat. Idaho lounged against the closed door, looking speculatively at Mary, who tried to appear at ease.

“This letter says to keep you away from liquor,” said Lane seriously. “Maybe you understand that.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly.

“I’ll say that Loring was a good picker,” Lane laughed softly. “How much did he tell you about this deal?”

“Not very much.” Mary glanced at the floor.

“All right. You’d fool anybody, my dear. I was afraid Loring might send a hard-boiled female.”

“Yuh can’t tell by the label,” laughed Idaho.

“That’s true.” Lane moved closer to Mary and lowered his voice. “I don’t know how much Loring told you, but you don’t need to know very much. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Just do as we say, and you’ll get your money. Is that plain?”

Mary nodded, not trusting her voice.

“All right. We’ll read that will, as soon as the men get here, and then you’ll go out to the Lazy A. And remember--you are Mary Ault as long as you are here. You play square with us, and you’ll get your profit.”

“And if she don’t----” Idaho Breen hesitated.

“We won’t discuss such a remote possibility, Idaho. Now,” Lane became quizzical, “will you please tell us what happened to you last night?”

“I--I hardly know,” faltered Mary. “A man met me at the train, put me in a buggy, and the team ran away. Another man found me, after I was thrown out, and brought me to the hotel. I hurt my ankle, but it is much better this morning.”

“Would you know these men if you seen ’em?” asked Idaho.

Mary shook her head quickly. “It was quite dark, you see.”

“Hear any names?”

“No--except the man who brought me in. His name was Wheeler.”

“Dude Wheeler, eh?” Idaho laughed harshly.

“That was his name. He was very nice to me.”

Idaho laughed, but dropped the subject, because the sheriff and old Judge Mears, the district judge, were coming in. The cowboys from the Lazy A crowded in and listened to Miles Lane read the will of Jud Ault, in which, with the exception of one dollar, the entire Lazy A property was left to his niece, Mary Ault, his brother’s only child--an orphan.

The old judge nodded over the legality of the instrument, and the reading was over. The will had been witnessed by Idaho Breen and Pie Ide.

As they came from the office, Cultus Collins met them near the door. He nodded pleasantly to everyone. Idaho turned to Pie Ide and asked him to go over to the livery stable and secure a rig to take Mary out to the ranch.

Cultus moved in close to Idaho. “I’d like to speak to you on a little business matter,” he said.

Idaho squinted narrowly at Cultus, as they moved down the street a short ways away from the crowd. Cultus drew out the letter he had brought to Jud Ault, and let Idaho read it.

“Now, I don’t know what it’s all about,” confessed Cultus. “It kinda seems to me that I’ve arrived too late; but mebbe you know what the old man wanted done.”

Idaho’s eyes hardened slightly. “I dunno just what--oh, yeah.” He looked at Cultus, a half smile on his lips. “I reckon I know what it was about. Yuh see, we’ve been losin’ a lot of cattle. Jist a while ago I found a lot of Lazy A hides in a prospect hole about three miles from our ranch. Somebody has been killin’ our stock, and the old man was worried about it. There’s been bad blood between our outfit and the Star X for years, and that bothered him, too. If you can clean up all this cattle stealin’, yore a wonder. Do yuh think yuh can?”

Cultus smiled widely. “I dunno; I’ll try.”

“Fine!” Idaho fairly beamed.

“Yuh better give me a job on the Lazy A,” suggested Cultus. “It would kinda mask my real work, don’t yuh see?”

“Well,” Idaho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can. You ain’t got no horse here, have yuh? No? Say, you git yore stuff out here and put it in the buggy, and you can drive Miss Ault out to the ranch. We’ll be along with yuh.”

“All right. But I ain’t got nothin’ to take along. Mebbe I better buy a couple of shirts. Anyway, I’ll get along.”

“Yeah. Git what yuh need. Ide will be here with the buggy in a few minutes.”

Cultus nodded and went to the New York Store, while Idaho went back and drew Miles aside, showing him the telegram he had, which was sent to Jud Ault. Then he told Miles about the letter of introduction Cultus had from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and of how he was going to keep Cultus out at the Lazy A, to hunt rustlers.

“His name is Jones, isn’t it?” asked Lane.

“That’s the name he gave last night. The letter he had didn’t mention any names. But Jones or not Jones, he’ll hunt rustlers to his heart’s content: and I’ll have him where I can watch him all the time.”

Lane laughed softly. “It’s working out fine.”

“Better than that, Miles. How do yuh like our heiress?”

“Better than I thought I would. She sure fits the part. Why, you’d almost take her for a decent girl.”

“Almost,” grinned Idaho. “Loring knew what we needed. The only thing that worries me is that Loring is in a position to demand more money. He knows too much.”

“Let him try anything like that, and I’ll send him to the penitentiary for life,” growled Lane. “Here comes the rig.”

They helped Mary into the buggy, while one of the boys got her suitcase from the hotel. She gave Lane the check for the trunk, and Idaho promised to send a wagon after it. Cultus came from the store, carrying a bundle, and Idaho motioned for him to take the lines. Lane hastened to introduce Mary, and Cultus smiled.

“I met Miss Ault on the train,” he said. “I didn’t know who she was at that time.”

“We’ll lead the way,” said Idaho. “Head straight out of town and take the road that leads to the left.”

Cultus nodded and drove slowly up the street, while the men crossed the street and mounted their horses.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” cautioned Cultus. “I’m goin’ to stay at the Lazy A and hunt rustlers. I had to show my hand, in order to keep an eye on you, Mary Elizabeth. This is a game, and we’ll play it together; but don’t let anybody know, because it’s a dangerous pastime. They’re goin’ to ride in close now; so be careful what yuh say to me.”

Mary nodded and looked straight ahead as the cowboys spurred in close to them.

“Yore name is Jones, ain’t it?” said Idaho, leaning from his saddle.

Cultus nodded quickly. “Bill Jones, to be exact.”

“From Oklahoma?”

“That’s the place.”

“Uh-huh,” Idaho straightened in his saddle, and there was a smile on his lips, as he looked straight ahead. Perhaps he didn’t know it, but there was also a smile on the lips of Jones of Oklahoma, too, and he was also looking straight ahead.

* * * * *

Old Jud Ault had had little pride in appearances, and as far as the Lazy A was concerned he was content to let it run down. The old ranch-house was half adobe, two stories; a very livable place, but not much to look at. A wide veranda extended the width of the front, on the ground level, with the old flagged floor still intact. The big living-room was much the same as that of the Star X, which was of decidedly masculine flavor.

Old Wang Lung, a wizen-faced old Celestial, presided over the culinary end of the Lazy A. He had been with the Lazy A for many years, and was known as “Hop,” for no reason at all. He had accepted both Mary and Cultus without comment. He was jealous of his kitchen, and woe to anyone who intruded.

Idaho Breen had told the boys confidentially that Bill Jones, of Oklahoma, was an Association detective. Cowboys, as a rule, do not care much for a range detective; and this rangy, homely specimen, with the solemn visage, rather amused them.

Pie Ide tried to frame up some practical jokes to play on the detective, but discarded each one shortly after its inception.

“I jist can’t do it,” he confided to Omaha, as they sat on the top pole of the corral together. “I git a swell idea for a joke on him, and then I can’t seem to pull it off. He looks at me with them funny eyes, and I kinda--you know how the hair raises up on the back of a dog when it’s scared? That’s the way I kinda crinkle.”

“Well, you ain’t scared of him, are yuh?” Omaha smoothed his mustache and stared at Pie Ide. The tall cowboy shook his head.

“It ain’t exactly bein’ scared, Omaha. But somethin’ tells me that he knows all about that joke. Even when I think of a new idea, he looks at me just as though he knowed what I was thinkin’ about, and that the joke was as old as the hills.”

“Aw, he ain’t so smart,” said Omaha “He’s been here a week and he ain’t done nothin’--much.”

“I know. He was over to that prospect hole, where Idaho found them cowhides. I asked him what he thought of ’em, and he jist looks at me kinda funny and says, ‘I think the cows that wore all them hides are dead.’”

Omaha snorted. “He did, eh? Gawd, he sure is a detective!”

“Idaho don’t think much of him,” said Pie. “I heard him ask Jones the other day how long he figured the Lazy A was goin’ to pay him a salary, if he didn’t do some detectin’.”

“What did he say, Pie?”

“He said he was doin’ his best. Idaho asks him how he goes about it to find a rustler, and he says he usually tries to put himself in the place of the rustler. I dunno what he meant, and I don’t think Idaho did, but Idaho says, ‘Well, have yuh done it in this case?’ Jones says he had, but it didn’t seem to work out. Idaho asks him what he intends to do now, and Jones says, ‘Well, mebbe I’ll put myself in the cow’s place, and kinda work it out from that angle.’”

“I think Jones is a plain damn’ fool,” said Omaha.

“I think,” said Pie slowly, “that that is jist what Jones of Oklahoma wants us to think. Omaha, the Association ain’t in the habit of sendin’ fools on a job of this kind.”

“Thasso? Huh! I never seen a cow-detective that had sense enough to pour sand out of a boot.”

“Allasame, I’m glad I’m pure,” grinned Pie. He lifted his head and squinted toward the main gate. “Here comes Miles Lane. Do yuh know, Omaha, I’m beginnin’ to suspect that he’s stuck on our new boss.”

“Danged fool!” growled Omaha. Pie laughed softly. “Lotsa fools around here, it seems to me. Even Cleve Sears, our estimable sheriff, ain’t losin’ no chances to come out here.”

All of which was very true, much to the disgust of Idaho Breen, who met Miles Lane at the front door.

“Well, what do yuh know?” asked Idaho.

Miles produced several pieces of mail, among which was a letter directed to Mary Ault. Idaho looked closely at it, put it in his pocket, and looked over the rest of the mail. The front door was closed behind them.

“That letter was mailed in Oreana City,” observed Lane. Idaho nodded, and walked to the far end of the veranda, followed by the lawyer. Idaho took out the letter and tore open the flap. It read:

My dear Miss Ault:

By this time you probably realize that there is little friendship lost between your ranch and mine, but after all there is no reason why we cannot be friends. You understand that I can’t very well come to see you at the Lazy A, and I do want to see you again. Can’t you meet me in town? Just drop me a note, and I’ll be waiting there for you. Make it soon.

Sincerely yours, “Dude” Jack Wheeler.

Idaho snorted disgustedly and tore the letter into shreds, scattering them in the breeze.

“Not going to give it to her, eh?” queried Lane.

“Don’t look like it, does it?”

“Suits me. How is she?”

“All right. Sa-a-ay! Dude Wheeler’s got a lot of nerve! I’d like to see him moonin’ around here!”

Lane laughed softly. “You’ve got to expect those things. She’s a pretty girl.”

Idaho looked closely at Lane. “You ain’t lettin’ that bother you, are yuh? Her looks don’t mean anythin’ to you, do they?”

Lane flushed slightly. “Not a bit.”

“Well,” said Idaho softly, “they better not, Miles. I’ll be glad when everythin’ is fixed up, and she’s out of here. By God, I can’t git any work out of three fool punchers, who insist on wearin’ white collars and takin’ baths.”

“How about Jones of Oklahoma?”

Idaho grinned. “That poor fool. I wonder if the Association was playing a joke on the Lazy A, or if they jist wanted to git rid of Jones. Every day he saddles his horse and goes ridin’ in the hills--alone. But he ain’t found out anythin’.”

“Where does he ride?” asked Lane.

“Oh, I dunno. I don’t pay much attention to him.”

They sauntered back to the front door and went into the house. Mary was curled up on a couch, reading an old magazine, but started to leave the room, when they came in. She had grown to dislike the Oreana attorney.

“Don’t go,” said Lane. “You’re always running away, it seems.”

“She wanted to go to town today.” offered Idaho. “But I told her we’d get anythin’ she wants.”

“Sure we will,” nodded Lane.

“Does that mean that I’m a prisoner here?” asked Mary indignantly.

“Have it that way, if yuh want to,” replied Idaho. “This deal is almost settled, and we’re not takin’ any chances on you.”

“But what harm would there be in going to town?” she asked.

“You’ll stay here,” declared Idaho. “You can go when we tell yuh to go--and then we don’t care where yuh go, just so yuh go a long ways from here. You’ll be well paid for the job, and yore only instructions, after yuh leave here, is to forget that yuh ever seen the place. I reckon Loring explained that to yuh.”

Mary turned her attention to the magazine, glad to drop the subject. Lane and Idaho went outside and finished their conversation, while Mary stared out of the window. She had virtually been a prisoner since she arrived at the Lazy A. Hop served her meals to her in the living-room, keeping her away from the dining-room and from any contact with the men.

She had had no chance to talk with Cultus. Breen had treated her respectfully enough, for which she was grateful, but she did want a few words with Cultus. Idaho Breen took no chances on her, and stayed close to the ranch, while Miles Lane handled the legal end of the inheritance.

As yet she had been told nothing of what they wanted, except that she was Mary Ault, the new owner of the Lazy A. She had been given the room formerly occupied by Jud Ault, which had been scrupulously cleaned by Hop. As far as physical comforts were concerned, she was all right.

The Lazy A had furnished Cultus with a horse and saddle, and Breen had told him to do as he pleased. Cultus realized that Mary was more or less of a prisoner, but there was nothing he could do to relieve the situation. He also knew that Breen was little interested in the stolen cattle, except that he would like to make some trouble for the Star X.

That Idaho Breen and Miles Lane intended to loot the Lazy A was easy to see. Cultus realized how easy it would be for him to prove that Mary Smith was not Mary Ault, but it would be difficult to prove that there was no Mary Ault. It would only serve to brand Mary Smith as an impostor, and him as her confederate.

Cultus surmised that Breen and Lane intended to merely use the girl as a tool to get the ranch cheap. The letters proved that the girl who was shot in San Francisco was Janice Lee, or at least she was not Mary Ault. After associating with the three cowpunchers at the Lazy A, Cultus decided that they were not in the plot. It was evident that they believed, as did everyone else, that Mary Ault was genuine. In fact, there was no reason for anyone to think otherwise.

On the same day that Lane brought the letter from Dude Wheeler, Cultus rode in at the tumbledown Cross Arrow, and met Badger and Shif’less Hill. The old man was sitting on his little porch, clad in a sleeveless undershirt, faded pair of overalls, without boots or socks--his bare feet resting on the porch-rail, while he slumped back in a rickety chair, smoking his pipe.

He unbent enough to remove his pipe from his mouth and to grunt a welcome. Cultus dismounted, tied his horse, and sat down on the steps. As Cultus rolled a cigarette, Shif’less came out, stooping a little, as he stepped through the doorway.

“Howdy,” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t know we had company. Yo’re Jones, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m Jones,” Cultus got up and shook hands with Shif’less.

“Somebody--I reckon it was the sheriff--said who yuh was. Yo’re with the Lazy A, ain’t yuh?”

“I’m over there,” smiled Cultus.

“Damned outfit!” snorted the old man. Shif’less smiled.

“Don’t like ’em, eh?” queried Cultus.

“No! Why should I like ’em?”

“No reason, I suppose,” Cultus smiled over his cigarette. “Seems like a good outfit. What’s wrong with ’em?”